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Urban Thought Collective
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What happens in Buena Beach doesn’t necessarily stay in Buena Beach.

At least not anymore. And you can thank me for it. I’m Diane, the unofficial eyes and ears of Buena Beach. There’s just so much going on here, I can’t keep it to myself. In fact, if you ever happen to visit Buena Beach, you’ll find out all sorts of things.

But, I can give you a little taste. In fact, each week I’ll catch you up on what’s new. Like with Calvin, who got himself fired, and then had the nerve to kiss me in front of my boss and our co-workers. Scan-da-lous. Now everyone’s trying to get the dirt. Too bad there isn’t any; in fact, I have no idea why he did it. But I have to admit, there’s a part of me (my bottom lip?) that’s glad he did.

I’d never admit that, of course. I’ve got a man with whom I’m deeply in like. Okay, okay – maybe it’s not even that deep. Jonathan’s sweet and all, but he’s young and sort of sprung. And worst of all, he’s unemployed. I thought it was a temporary thing because he said he was “between gigs” when we first started going out, but we’ve been through Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Easter, and even Arbor Day without him signing a new W-2 form. I’ll give him until my birthday in August to come up with something – I’m definitely not gonna break out my Visa check card at TGIF for my own birthday dinner.

Besides, perhaps I’ll have moved on to other things before then, especially if I get Calvin’s position. In fact, I’m working on my resume all weekend so I’ll be able to march it in to my boss, Danny, on Monday to tell him that he needs to hire me – that I’d do a fantastic job; that just because a brotha happened to screw up doesn’t mean that all of us black folk swim in the “loser” pool; and that I could jump right in.

I’ve been Danny’s assistant for the last two years, and I practically know how to do everyone’s job at the City of Buena Beach’s Recreation Division better than they do. I’d be making the big cheese – like muenster or provolone. Watch, once I get that position (because the more I think about it, that’s the only logical choice to be made), I’ll move to a little apartment on the beach so I can walk to work. That way, when I purchase my Range Rover, I’ll be able to save gas by just driving it on the weekends. Maybe I’ll even treat myself to a real Fendi bag. I mean, who wants to step out of their Range Rover with a fake bag?

Too bad I haven’t been able to talk to my girl Sandy about this whole situation. We usually hang out at breaks and go to lunch most days. This week, however, her idiot boss kept her occupied from 8:00 on the dot to at least 5:04, 5:05 (and I’d have gone off if Danny ever tried to make me stay past 5:00). So instead, I’ve had to get my career advice from…you guessed it – Jonathan. Even when I’ve called Sandy, she’s hurried me off the phone like she’s busy doing something. I love Sandy and all, but I can just picture her ten years from now, surrounded by a trio of cats while knitting a sweater vest and eating a Swanson’s TV dinner (on an actual TV tray) as she watches reruns of The Golden Girls. I’d love to set her up with one of the homies, but I don’t really see her hooking up with someone “ethnic”. And, truth be told, she’s not the kind of white girl that the brothas typically dig. But then again, you never know